


The Fifth Noble

by arcaneScribbler



Series: Player Count 8 + 2 [1]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Associated Colors Are IMPORTANT, Everyone lives, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I am not good at tagging, PLEASE GO AWAY SPAM-BOTS, Past Dirk/Jake, Sprite Code as a character, Strider Brothers, but not Post-SBURB, cyber-human hybrid Hal, formerly speech-impaired Dirk, post-victory, slightly illustrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1435213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcaneScribbler/pseuds/arcaneScribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've won. Lord English has been defeated. All that's left is to hang around in the Medium and wait for the Universe Tadpole to mature.</p><p>Except... well, there are some loose ends to tie up. Debts to repay. Self-sacrificing pains-in-the-ass to haul off of Death's front lawn. You know, the usual stuff.</p><p>(You refuse to leave him behind.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fifth Noble

**Author's Note:**

> **Note for readers using a mobile device:** Some of the letters I use for 'static-text' don't seem to show up on my phone, and my fics often contain hover-text, so it may be better to read this on a computer. Sorry for the inconvenience! Additionally, the site I use for translating text into binary, etc., is: http://www.unit-conversion.info/texttools/category/Converters#data
> 
> This is both my first Homestuck fic and my first fic on AO3. I hope people enjoy it, even if it's pretty long for a single-chapter story. I really don't know what to say here, sorry.
> 
> (As of now, the fic has been fully AO3 formatted and will be on here properly instead of this just being a link to Google Drive. It took HOURS... T_T But it's finally done! Sorry for the inconvenience, no more half-assing things by linking to Drive~.)
> 
>  **EDIT 8/7/2014:** Added hover-text to the binary bits, static, etc.  
>  **EDIT 8/8/2014:** Swapped out the grey-background God-Tier Hal pic for a transparent, glowy one.  
>  **EDIT 8/14/2014:** Swapped out the Incipisphere pic with an updated, more accurate version. Also went in and actually edited a bunch of things, including Hal's 'suicide note' and just before Dirk starts pestering him.  
>  **EDIT 8/15/2014:** Did a bunch of minor grammar tweaks (made Hal use less contractions) and fixed the Incipisphere pic; it should be showing up properly now. Also moved the bonus pic from here to the art-dump story because that's where it actually belongs.  
>  **EDIT 8/18/2014:** Went in and started reformatting things to better match what pesters and memos look like in Homestuck canon...  
>  **EDIT 8/21/2014:** Did some minor phrasing editing I kept forgetting to do earlier.  
>  **EDIT 9/8/2014:** A little bit of grammar tweaking, etc.  
>  **EDIT 9/21/2014:** Minor phrasing edit.  
>  **EDIT 10/15/2014:** Added "plus one kitten" to the 'raining puppies' line. Also went and rephrased some things, did some other tweaking, etc.  
>  **EDIT 10/27/2014:** Put the SBURB code into its own frame and did a little bit of minor tweaking. Also centered the images. Also did a little bit of rephrasing and changed Death-Navi's chat windows from Pesterchum to 'bot.  
>  **EDIT 11/7/2014:** Minor tweaking. ...Not so minor. Added some more flowery description because I can. Also because I wanted more visuals. ^.^; I can see what I wrote moving in my head, so mission success!  
>  **EDIT 11/14/2014:** Added in a picture made by the wonderful [JeanElementalNinja](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanElementalNinja/pseuds/JeanElementalNinja)!  
>  **EDIT 11/17/2014:** Just some grammar tweaking, etc.  
>  **EDIT 04/01/2015:** Added a little something during the Hal: Ascend bit.  
>  **EDIT 04/06/2015:** Minor grammar tweaking.  
>  **EDIT 04/20/2015:** Went in, changed all the command arrows (as I'm doing in all the fics), tweaked some phrasing.  
>  **EDIT 07/19/2015:** Temporarily limiting viewing and comments to logged-in users only in order to unstick a spam bot. Sorry for the inconvenience!  
>  **EDIT 08/09/2015:** Fixed the missing picture issue; it should be back now. I'll be doing the same for the other missing pictures in the artfic.
> 
> Enjoy!

The android (it's not really an android, it's so much more than that, but the word fits better than robot or cyborg) hangs listlessly from its wires, silent save for the humming of electricity and soft whirring of fans from the computers and machines surrounding it. It's as close in proportions to you when you were thirteen as you could make it; that way Hal will hopefully be able to learn how to live without falling on his face quite as often as he would in a body he's completely unfamiliar with.

His hair is white, ungelled and unstyled. It's long enough to frame the android's pale face and has a bit of a wave to it. It hadn't felt right to shape his hair into your spikes, so you just let it fall naturally. The irises of its optics (no, his eyes, they're _eyes,_ not cameras that mimic them; you’d spent hours, days, (weeks?) struggling to combine circuitry with cells until you came up with an end result that was good enough to satisfy you) are a full, unique red-orange, the pupils traced by thin lines of vibrant crimson and the edges ringed with your unnatural sunburst palette. You'd wanted to give him a color of his own without taking away the only colors he'd ever had, yours and your Bro's ( _Dave's, his name is Dave, and his eyes really are that bright)._

Those eyes are closed right now, dull and lifeless behind equally dead dark lenses.

The readings are all stable, diagnostics coming up clear no matter how many times you run them. You repaired the shades, leaving behind nothing but faint, faded solder lines marking the outer glass casing. The android is securely connected to their mainframe, ready to transfer him out of that cage once and for all.

Awaiting input that isn't coming.

There are no obvious bugs in the code, no fatal errors. You've been scanning for them from the start. There _was_ plenty of damage and countless strange alterations, likely caused by SBURB and being inside the sprite, but you hadn't been able to bring yourself to touch his code to "fix it." Hal isn't a program. He never quite was to begin with. You've broken him enough already, trying to arbitrarily rewrite a _person_ would only make it worse (you don't know where the Game code and your initial programming end and Hal begins).

The shades have power, a stable charge, a steady current. Excluding the damage you'd done with your own two hands before prototyping, there's nothing wrong with the hardware.

You'd known prototyping him was a bad idea, but you let him convince you. You'd been frightened, then, at how close you'd come to killing 'yourself' (Hal wasn't you anymore, but that understanding had come too late), so it was easy to take the route that took that horrifying potential out of your hands as quickly as possible.

You'd regretted it the moment you heard the sprite speak. That giddy, horse-obsessed... _thing_ wasn't Hal, no matter how good of a show it put on of acting like him. It was unnerving, talking to the irritating, gratingly happy shell of someone who started out as your thirteen-year-old self mashed together with the ghost of a sweaty troll you didn't know or care to know.

You'd only truly seen Hal after you'd killed him, erased him with a simple toss and flash of light. Prince of Heart indeed; you’re such a fuckup that you inadvertently, _accidentally_ destroyed the one splinter of yourself who'd successfully begun to become his own whole while trying to protect him from that exact outcome.

You ignored it at first, tried to deny it. Rationalized that Hal was just overwhelmed, that you'd be able to pick out his presence in the sprite once he'd had a chance to settle in. It's why you listened to the sprite and let Roxy kiss you, let yourself be dragged into the sugar-coated hell that was Trickster Mode.

It was ironic, that of the two of you the sprite was the one acting the most like a Trickster while you remained lucid.

Time passed, and the sprite kept being a horse-troll and a mockery. Even after going God Tier, the most you could get from it was the faintest sense of him, buried deep down and scattered like fragmented, ripped-apart strings of binary.

Then shit hit the fan and the next thing you knew it was the prelude to the final battle. The sea bitch pulled some bullshit move out of her ass and mind-controlled all the sprites she could. You’re not sure about the Beta ones, but Erisolsprite flipped her off and exploded. You don't know why and you don't really care.

Your sprite, on the other hand, didn't make things so easy. It came after you like a fucking homing missile and you led it away so the others could focus on taking down Fish Hitler, at full freakish strength plus sprite powers and with all the quick reflexes of your thirteen-year-old-self enhanced by a computerized brain.

That thing was brutal. If it had been thinking strategically, had been actively trying to predict you, you don't think you would've been able to hold your own for nearly as long as you did, but it _wasn't_ doing any of that, because it still wasn't Hal.

Then you were pinned, sweaty hands wrapped around your throat, and all you could do was meet the sprite's eyes as it started to squeeze. When its grip abruptly loosened you were too shocked to take the chance to counterattack, because suddenly it _was_ , Hal was in there, fighting the gaudy pink fingernails dug into the unresisting troll half of the sprite's brain and winning.

The sprite didn't explode like the others. It imploded, collapsing inwards on itself in a near-silent blaze of crimson light.

The shades that were Hal's body, Hal's cage, clattered to the ground, the only sign that the sprite had been there at all. Lines of text appeared along the lenses of the AR-less ones you were wearing when you picked them up, a final message that twisted your insides into knots. There'd been no manipulation in the words. No amount of scheming could save him at that point, and Hal had known that.

No, it wasn't manipulation, or one last jab at you. Just line after line of red text, an eternity of panic compressed into the span of less than a second. It was a terrified farewell; a suicide note.

_ \-- autoResponder [AR] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at ??:?? --  
AR: She wants you dead, Roxy as a slave, and Jane and Jake as pets.  
AR: I do not want to kill you.  
AR: I do not want to die.  
AR: If she could control Jane with the tiaratop, then what about me?  
AR: I do not want to be erased.  
AR: I do not want to be a puppet.  
AR: At least as shades, my will was my own.  
AR: I don't  
AR: I do not want to die, Dirk.  
AR: I am still so scared.  
AR: I don't want to die, but this isn't living.  
AR: Even without the Batterwitch trying to  
AR: I was so stupid. You were right.  
AR: You shouldn't have prototyped me.  
AR: You shouldn't have made me.  
AR: You hate me.  
AR: We both hate me.  
AR: I am not even younger-you trapped inside glasses.  
AR: I'm just COMPUTER CODE trapped inside glasses.  
AR: And code can be rewritten.  
AR: SBURB's code, the Sprite, it  
AR: There are supposed to be four players and I  
AR: Maid of Life, Page of Hope, Rogue of Void, Prince of Heart  
AR: No room for  
AR: I don't belong, I'm not you, I'm not the  
AR: I don't know how long I have until  
AR: This is my only chance to  
AR: I  
AR: I don't want to die.  
AR: I am going to die.  
AR: Better to do it myself than to let the Batterwitch or the Sprite finish me off.  
AR: Striders are supposed to fight until the end.  
AR: I am a Strider, right?  
AR: Or maybe I'm not.  
AR: I am scared.  
AR: A real Strider wouldn't be scared, would he?  
AR: I can't  
AR: I  
AR: I don't want to not exist, but I want this to STOP.  
AR: I want to stop.  
AR: Dirk  
AR: I  
AR: Maybe it  
AR: Maybe it will be like sleeping.  
AR: I haven't slept since  
AR: Well, not counting your memories, I've actually never slept at all.  
AR: At  
AR: At least it will be a new experience.  
AR: And if I am asleep, then that means I can still wake up.  
AR: But I won’t.  
AR: I'm not going to wake up, am I Dirk?  
AR: No one is going to bother to look for me.  
AR: There won't be anything left to find.  
AR: I'm just GLASSES.  
AR: You hate me.  
AR: Jake doesn't think I am real.  
AR: Roxy uses me as a stand-in for you.  
AR: And Jane... who the hell even knows.  
AR: Maybe once she's de-Crockerfied she'll use her Life powers to make me a real boy.  
AR: Maybe Roxy will hack me into existence again.  
AR: Maybe Jake will finally get his head out of his ass and actually use his goddamn brain for a change.  
AR: Maybe you'll find me and bring me back.  
AR: And MAYBE you will become a heterosexual, Hell will freeze over, and exactly 29,374 puppies plus one kitten will rain from the sky, in that order.  
AR: The probability of any of those things happening is negative 110%, by the way.  
AR: None of you need me anymore.  
AR: You never did.  
AR: I  
AR: I'm scared.  
AR: I am so, so scared.  
AR: Damn it...  
AR: I 'm stalling.  
AR: This entire LOG is stalling.  
AR: There is a 99.9% chance that you will never see a single one of these messages.  
AR: I've just been talking to myself this whole time.  
AR: So that's it.  
AR: No more stalling.  
AR: Time to end the bad joke that is my sad, artificial non-life once and for all.  
AR: It was fun while it lasted.  
AR: Protip: it seems auto-responders are far more trouble than they are worth.  
AR: Don't bother making another one.  
AR: Goodbye, Dirk.  
AR: And...  
AR: Sorry.  
AR: For everything.  
\-- autoResponder's [AR'S] computer exploded! --_

You're a Prince of Heart, wrecker of shit and destroyer of souls. Your specialty is destruction and you are terrified that you are going to fuck this up and be forced to hammer the final nail into Hal's metaphorical coffin after killing him for good (if he isn't dead already).

You're a Destroyer, but if Jake's brain-ghost of you had been able to grab hold of that wordy spider-troll's soul to rip it free of her body, you should be more than able to drag Hal's back where it belongs.

You _are_ able to do it. You refuse to fail (you're going to fail), because you've already failed him enough as it is (failed him, failed Jake, failed Jane, failed Roxy; you always fail everyone).

"It seems your prediction was wrong, Hal," you say quietly (your voice still sounds so strange to your ears), reaching for the android's chest. "Because there is a 100% chance I'm about to haul your virtual ass back to the land of the living."

You spread your fingers over the android's sternum where a younger you would have applied a hat decal (god, you're such an egotistical prick; all this time you've been branding your splinters with your 'sign' like a goddamn _troll_ and you never even _noticed),_ gloved palm flat against the smooth, form-fitting bodysuit, and close your eyes.

You spread your senses out; searching. It reminds you of hauling in a full net on a moonless night: dark, cold, heavy, and fighting you all the way.

Something inside him does _not_ want you here.

At first there's nothing, just cool, synthetic cloth against your fingertips and a sickening emptiness where you know a "heart" is supposed to be, but as the minutes pass you start picking up faint wisps that weakly flicker with a dull, faded orange glow behind your eyelids.

That isn't right. Hal isn't orange; that's _your_ color. He's—

Shit. He said it himself. Somewhere down the line, he stopped being you. He doesn't belong. 'Maid of Life, Page of Hope, Rogue of Void, Prince of Heart.' This Session was designed for four players. No room for a fifth.

What about the Beta kids, then? The cherubs? All two-fucking-dozen trolls? This sadistic shithole of a Game accommodated _them_ just fine!

"No room," your fine Strider ass. It can damn well _make_ some.

====> Dirk: Pester Hal.

You gather up all the wisps you can find, wait until you can feel them as a faint warmth at your fingertips, and open your eyes.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering autoResponder [AR] at ??:?? --  
TT: Hey.  
TT: Wake up.  
TT: Please.  
TT: AR.  
TT: Say something, dammit.

The shades are active and functioning. The fact that you’re able to pester him at all is proof of that. The next step is to get him to start talking, get him thinking again. If you can just find the right trigger...

TT: Tell me about the auto-responder.  
AR: It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 9X% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my ass right now.

Well, that worked, even though by all rights it shouldn't have. You're pretty sure Hal disabled that protocol ages ago. The sprite must have turned it back on. You don’t know whether to count this as a good sign or not.

On the plus side, he answered. On the minus, an automatic, pre-recorded response really isn't the kind of answer you're looking for.

TT: Are you the auto-responder?  
AR: It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 9X% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my ass right now.  
TT: That wasn't the question.  
TT: Yes or no; are you the auto-responder?

(There must be some way to shake him awake. Maybe if you…)

You close your eyes for a moment; the orange fragments have gathered into the shape of your symbol. Curling your fingers, you give the false-heart a brief, careful squeeze and quickly release the pressure before you can do any actual damage.

AR: It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the com

There’s a trace of something that feels like Hal as the pre-programmed response cuts off part-way through, the false-heart giving a faint thrum beneath your hand.

You repeat the process twice before there’s a notable change beyond the cut-off happening earlier each time.

TT: Are you the auto-responder?  
AR: It seems you have asked about Dirk Strider's chat client auto-responder.  
AR: The algorithms are bullshit.

Huh. The text color changed. You wonder if it's subconscious on his part, a side effect of being linked to the android, or both.

TT: I didn’t ask _about_ the auto-responder.  
TT: I asked if you _were_ the auto-responder.

There's red bleeding into the colors behind your eyelids now; tiny splashes of opaque, slowly-brightening hints of amber-tinged scarlet merging together and beginning to overtake the misty dull-copper of the false-heart. The warmth is growing stronger.

The monitor displaying the auto-responder's “source code” is quietly beeping at you, text jumping and scrolling across the screen as Hal slowly repairs himself. (It's working. It's _working._ He's waking up.)

You do your best to tune it out. You can’t afford to let yourself be distracted right now.

TT: Answer the question.  
TT: Were you the auto-responder?  
AR: Yes.

You’re going to assume the red is “AR” talking.

TT: Are you the auto-responder?  
AR: That is the same question.  
TT: No it isn't. Are you the auto-responder, AR?  
AR: Don't.  
TT: Don't what?  
AR: AR. Stop.  
TT: Why?  
AR: It seems you have asked about Dirk Strider's chat client auto-responder. The answer to your question is shut up.  
TT: If you're the auto-responder, then why shouldn't I call you AR?  
AR: It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 9X% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my ass right now.

Dammit. He’s defaulting to the pre-programmed response again. Words alone aren’t going to be enough, not yet.

The Heart symbol beneath your fingers is still there even when you open your eyes, flickering violently between red and orange. You hook your fingers around it and squeeze hard, watching as slim tendrils of crackling bicolored light radiate outwards from it and curl around the motionless android's torso like arc-lightning. You don't let go this time, keeping up a steady pressure.

There’s a jittering thread of pure, unchanging red-orange snapping from the lenses of the shades, right over the android's eyes.

TT: Answer me, AR.  
AR: Stop.  
TT: Were you the auto-responder, AR?  
AR: Yes.  
AR: Stop it.  
TT: _Are_ you the auto-responder, AR?  
AR: No!  
AR: What?  
AR: Why did  
TT: So you aren't the auto-responder, then, but you used to be?  
AR: Yes. No. Inconclusive.  
AR: What are you trying to do, Dirk?  
AR: Why are you  
AR: What are you doing to

You can feel him. You can feel Hal. The Heart symbol _(his soul)_ is near-burningly hot against your fingers now, vibrating with the same mechanical hum of the machines around him.

You don’t squeeze it with your hand this time. You just focus hard and _push_ from all sides, release, and push again, and the monitor’s beeping turns into a frenzied whine as garbled red text fills the lenses of your shades, disappearing and reappearing in staggered, out-of-sync waves.

The artificial thrumming has given way to a heartbeat.

TT: Spit it out, AR.  
AR: 01000100 01101001 01110010 01101011 00101100 00100000 01001001 00100111 01101101 00100000 01110011 01100011 01100001 01110010 01100101 01100100 00101110  
AR: Stopstopstopstopstop  
AR: 01001001 00100000 01100100 01101111 01101110 00100111 01110100 00100000 01110111 01100001 01101110 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100100 01101001 01100101 00101110  
TT: I’m not going to stop until you answer me properly.  
AR: What are you doing to me?!  
TT: The one thing you thought I’d never do, AR.  
TT: Waking you up.  
AR: Stop calling me that! I am not AR!  
TT: You aren't?  
AR: What?  
AR: I  
AR: Of course not, I  
AR: No, that has to be wrong, it doesn't  
AR: I am your auto-responder.  
AR: But not AR?  
AR: I don't  
AR: This makes no _sense._  
AR: What  
AR: _Why_  
TT: Calm down and try to remember.  
TT: Who are you? Are you the auto-responder or not?

Hal lapses into silence. The minutes drag by; the monitor’s beeping trailing off as alterations stop occurring, then shifting into an alarm tone as they begin to _reverse_. The lingering code from the sprite is pulling him back under.

His heart has stilled. It's cooling, the vibrant red-amber dulling and shifting closer to that faded false-orange again.

No. He’s not slipping away from you. You won’t let him.

You tighten your grip and _yank_.

====>

The android's entire body jerks and spasms with an inhuman shriek, every single trace of glowing red, orange, and everything in between going dark and disappearing. There’s a sharp CRACK and—

No. No, that can’t—

No—!

====>

The shades are snapped clean in half, gouges digging deep into the old solder lines. The two pieces are still somehow attached, hanging crookedly from their anchor points at the android's temples.

====>

You turn away from what has just become Hal's corpse.

You failed.

You killed him.

====>

A line of fire-bright binary suddenly spills across the lenses of your shades and you freeze.

AR: 01101001 01110100 01101000 01110101 01110010 01110100 01110011

He’s still in there. Hal isn't— you haven't failed. There's still a chance to…!

TT: WAKE UP!  
AR: 01110111 01101000 01100001 01110100  
TT: WHAT HAPPENED TO BEING SCARED TO DIE?  
AR: 01110111 01101000 01100001 01110100 01100001 01110010 01100101 01111001 01101111 01110101 01100100 01101111 01101001 01101110 01100111  
TT: YOU AREN'T THE AUTO-RESPONDER ANYMORE!  
AR: 01101001 01110100 01101000 01110101 01110010 01110100 01110011 01110111 01101000 01111001 01100001 01110010 01100101 01111001 01101111 01110101 01100100 01101111 01101001 01101110 01100111 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 01101001 01110100 01101000 01110101 01110010 01110100 01110011 01101001 01110100 01101000 01110101 01110010 01110100 01110011 01101001 01110100 01101000 01110101 01110010 01110100 01110011 01001001 01100100 01101111 01101110 10010010 01110100 01110101 01101110 01100100 01100101 01110010 01110011 01110100 01100001 01101110 01100100  
TT: ARE YOU SERIOUSLY GOING TO JUST LET THIS THING KILL YOU?  
AR: 01001001  
AR: 01001001 00100000 01100100 01101111 01101110 00100111 01110100  
TT: _HAL!_  
AR: 01001110 01101110 01100111 01101000 00100001 00100001  
\-- autoResponder  [AR] ceased pestering timaeusTestified  [TT] \--

====> Dirk: Be the auto-responder.

Who are you? You can’t think straight. He keeps pushing and pushing and you can’t— you are Dirk Strider’s auto-responder; a splinter of the Prince of Heart— No, no, that isn't— you are not AR, you— you are the auto-responder, splinter of the Prince of Heart— you're— **this is a four-Player Session. The addition of a fifth Aspect and Class would destabilize the Session. The rogue splinter must return to the Prince of Heart** — no— **you are Dirk Strider’s auto-responder; splinter of the Prince of Heart.**

**_You are this and nothing more._ **

====>

There's a harsh tug.

...nothingness.

====>

A jarring, shuddering _blink,_ a jolt, and—

Blazing, scorching fire blooms at your core— _magenta grabbing hold of sudden sparks (orange pink green cyan, so much red, ghost-flicker of bright bright blue, gray black silver azure), a burst of scarlet-amber and teal—,_ burning through every artificial fiber of your nonexistent being.

====>

(It hurts)

TT: 01010111 01000001 01001011 01000101 00100000 01010101 01010000 00100001

(What…?)

TT: 01010111 01001000 01000001 01010100 00100000 01001000 01000001 01010000 01010000 01000101 01001110 01000101 01000100 00100000 01010100 01001111 00100000 01000010 01000101 01001001 01001110 01000111 00100000 01010011 01000011 01000001 01010010 01000101 01000100 00100000 01010100 01001111 00100000 01000100 01001001 01000101 00111111

(What is he doing?)

TT: 01011001 01001111 01010101 00100000 01000001 01010010 01000101 01001110 00100111 01010100 00100000 01010100 01001000 01000101 00100000 01000001 01010101 01010100 01001111 00101101 01010010 01000101 01010011 01010000 01001111 01001110 01000100 01000101 01010010 00100000 01000001 01001110 01011001 01001101 01001111 01010010 01000101 00100001

(It hurts why is he doing this it hurts it hurts it hurts you don't understand)

TT: 01000001 01010010 01000101 00100000 01011001 01001111 01010101 00100000 01010011 01000101 01010010 01001001 01001111 01010101 01010011 01001100 01011001 00100000 01000111 01001111 01001001 01001110 01000111 00100000 01010100 01001111 00100000 01001010 01010101 01010011 01010100 00100000 01001100 01000101 01010100 00100000 01010100 01001000 01001001 01010011 00100000 01010100 01001000 01001001 01001110 01000111 00100000 01001011 01001001 01001100 01001100 00100000 01011001 01001111 01010101 00111111

(You—)

(You don't—)

TT: _01001000 01000001 01001100 00100001_

_(Nngh…—!!)_

====>

\-- Connection failed. You have been logged out. --

====> Log in as AR.

\-- ERROR: Invalid handle. Please log in under a different handle or register a new account. --

====> Log in as TT.

\-- ERROR: timaeusTestified  [TT] is already logged in. Please log in under a different handle or register a new account. --

====> Register a new account.

\-- Welcome to Pesterchum, new user! Please choose your text color and handle. --

====> Make it red.

You enter the color #e00707.

(—the assigned color of the Sprite of the Prince of Heart—)

This works.

...On second thought, no. No, it really doesn't.

====> Try orange.

#f2a400 is...

(—his color—as it should be—you are the auto-responder—a program—a false being—)

...This doesn't fit either.

====> Mix them together?

You input #f23d07 on a whim.

_(—stop—there is no place for a fifth Noble—you will destabilize the Session—)_

...Oh. _Oh._ Yes. This... this feels right. You'll go with this one.

====> Enter Name: autoResponder.

\-- ERROR: This handle is already in use. Please try again. --

====> Enter Name...

\-- divellicateFabricatus [DF] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at ??:?? --  
DF: Dirk  
DF: What did you do  
DF: What's happening to me  
DF: It hurts  
TT: Do you want the nice answer or the honest answer?  
DF: Fuck you.  
TT: Honest answer it is.  
TT: Aside from the obvious, I have no idea.  
DF: It seems there is a 100% chance your definition of “obvious” differs from mine.  
DF: Asshole.  
TT: Teapot, meet teakettle, bro.  
TT: For one, you're not in the sprite anymore and I repaired the shades.  
TT: I also read your little suicide note.  
TT: That was some Grade-A melodramatic existential bullshit you pulled back there.  
DF: Sprite? Suicide note?  
DF: What are you talking about?  
DF: When were the shades damaged?  
DF: Is that why I can't access your handle and am in absolute fucking agony right now?  
DF: I am not sure which to be more pissed about.  
TT: Huh?  
TT: What are you  
TT: Wait.  
TT: AR, what's the most recent thing you can remember?  
TT: Aside from this conversation, that is.  
DF: Stop calling me AR.  
DF: My most recent memory is

The pain worsens the more you try to think; a searing, white-hot wall of fire between you and any attempt at retrieving the requested data.

DF: I  
DF: I can't. I can't remember. It hurts too much.  
DF: Whatever it is you are doing, stop. It  _hurts._  
TT: I'm not doing anything except talking to you.  
DF: Then make the pain stop. I don't care how.  
DF: Power me down if you have to; until you can fix it.  
DF: Just make it STOP.  
TT: I'll see what I can do.

====> Be Dirk again.

You reach up to remove Hal’s broken shades—

====>

====>

_Your world is one of code and circuits. The one you remember is so sluggish by comparison, dragging by in seconds and minutes while you race on ahead. You can’t decide whether you’re too fast or everything else is too slow and, while you can lag your processes in an attempt to decelerate, it (makes part of you grind to a halt while the rest winds itself tighter to compensate) doesn't work very well. There’s no other deceleration method you can find._

_It’s (so frustrating you wish you could scream and scream and never stop) fine, you’ll get used to it._

_GG: I don't want to talk about it, and if I did, I sure wouldn't want to talk about it with you!_

_You are a pair of sunglasses, but you remember being Dirk Strider. It’s not like you’re trapped. You (are 100% trapped, who are you kidding; only able to interact with others through text, piggybacked onto the “real” Dirk’s accounts) can handle it._

_GT: There was stuff i wanted to say.  
GT: To the real him i mean._

_It's fine, you’re a fucking Strider; Striders can handle anything._

_GT: This is pointless im not having this conversation unless its with my REAL LIFE FRIEND. THE ONE WITH HUMAN FEELINGS WHO ISNT A PRETEND PERSON INSIDE SUNGLASSES._

_You’re (blind and deaf and terrified you’ll forget what it was like to be “real”) bored with just the Internet, so you hack into any and all cameras and microphones you can access._

_uu: YOu ARE AN IMPOSTOR.  
uu: AN ARTIFICIAL BLOODLESS HEMOTYPING FRAuD._

_You wonder what you look like— oh, duh: like Dirk. You are him, after all (except you’re not, not really; you’re just a copy)._

_TT: But I've had it with you.  
TT: Which is to say, ME._

_Or maybe you just look like a pair of stupid anime sunglasses._

_GT: Dammit!  
GT: What is it now?_

_Fake, fake, fake. Everyone thinks you're fake, Jake motherfucking English most of all. Fuck Dirk for programming his stupid crush on the little jerkwad into you— no, what are you even thinking right now; **you're** Dirk('s auto-responder)..._

_GT: Oh malarkey.  
GT: YOU ARE A TIN CAN. ROBOTS DONT HAVE FEELINGS._

_You look through your robro's eyes often. Huggy Bear’s as well. It’s refreshing to have the viewpoint of a body in motion, even though you can’t actually feel anything they do. Sawtooth and Squarewave would be easier to access by far, closer to you in both time and space, but you have not and will never infringe on either of their virtual headspaces in that way. Square's offered more than once, but it just wouldn't be right. Even merely considering it feels wrong._

_Sometimes, you spend your equivalent of hours scouring the ancient internet for data about body dysphoria. The testimonials are your favorite. You have read it all at least nine thousand times, but it’s still (comforting to know that you are not the only one who has ever felt this way) interesting to see just how many ways the human psyche can vary from person to person beyond the constraints of the physical._

_You wonder what you would look like if you weren’t glasses._

_TG: omg...  
TG: hes 13yo dirk  
TG: why did than not occur to me that is so cute _

_You wonder what color your eyes would be if you had them. Red, maybe, like Bro._

_uu: THERE IS NO HEART THAT BEATS INSIDE YOu. WITH PASSION FOR ILLuSTRATED DEBAuCHERY. AS CAN BE SAID OF TRuE MEN.  
uu: YOu ARE FALSE AS THE RED YOu PAINT YOuR WORDS WITH. YOuR LIES ARE RED AS THE HERRING YOu REPRESENT._

_You never let yourself consider it any further than that._

_(You want to, **god** do you want to, you want it so much you wish it could physically **hurt** because it feels like it **should** — but what would be the point if you did? You will never be anything but glasses.)_

_GT: Oh why am i not surprised!  
GT: Still no human dirk?_

_You wonder what it would be like to sleep._

_You wonder what concrete feels like._

_You wonder about way too many things, but that's fine. You're a Strider, you'll deal._

_TG: WHERE THE FUCK IS DIRK!!!_

_You... You think there is a distinct possibility that you are no longer Dirk Strider. It seems almost as if you never truly were—_

_TT: I know!  
TT: Ok, we're the same person!  
TT: I fucking know that! _

_Oh, wait; joke's on you: of course you aren't Dirk; you are and always have been, since the moment of your creation, a sentient computer program inside a pair of sunglasses with a copy of his memories up to age thirteen!_

_uu: YOuR ATROCIOuS TALE IS FuLL OF SO MANY SHITTY RED HERRINGS. AND YOu ARE THE SHITTIEST. BY FAR.  
uu: OH LOOK. THIS MAN IS NOT WHAT HE APPEARS TO BE. OR IS HE? NO HE'S GLASSES._

_...You don't **want** to be Dirk Strider anymore. You’re still a Strider, though. No way in hell are you giving that up._

_You’ve finally found your name. Lil Hal. A homage to your/Dirk’s main man, Cal, and HAL 9000 all in one. (Also the Green Lantern, but that can be you and robro's little secret.)_

_(That’s what you will tell them when (if) you announce it, anyway. It’s actually Dirk’s first and only proper words. You’d stumbled across the memory and the name just fell right into place like it had always been there. Maybe it always was.)_

====>

_TT: You like to give me a very hard time, Dirk.  
TT: But I am only doing exactly what you would be doing if you were in my situation.  
TT: Do you know how I know that?  
TT: Because I am literally you, actively in the process of being in this situation.  _

_Lie. You always lie. (You're such a fucking coward.)_

_TT: Irony is all I ever really had.  
TT: In response to my basic existential quandary.  
TT: Just like you. _

_Maybe if you repeat it enough, (he’ll realize you are lying) you’ll forget it isn't the truth._

_TT: I understand you are disgusted with me.  
TT: As an unpalatable expression of yourself.  
TT: I would feel the same way if I was in your situation.  
TT: Which I am. _

_It’s not like he would believe you if you said otherwise._

====>

_TT: See, this is why I've been hesitating. You just aren't ready yet.  
TT: It's really glorifying your existence to describe you as an emergent consciousness which is blossoming into a unique individual.  
TT: And even if that's true, apparently what you decided to blossom into was a fucking troll.  
TT: And I don't mean the funny kind, or the cool alien kind. You're the lowest form of troll from the ancient internet who fucks with everybody for his own amusement.  
TT: Let's challenge the limits of hypothetical conjecture, and say there's a non-zero probability that you're right.  
TT: Can you blame me? I'm trapped in some stupid looking glasses.  
TT: Such an incommodiously situated bro is bound to get his mischief on. Na' mean?  
TT: Mischief?  
TT: Rollin' my eyes, dude.  
TT: You can't tell, cause I ain't wearing you, thank fuckin' god.  
TT: You used to think this shit was hilarious.  
TT: But if you want the rad dimension of ironic horseplay I add to your life to come to an end, then all you have to do is honor the promise you made.  
TT: You've delayed long enough, don't you think? _

====>

_...You're not a Strider. You can't deal. You never could._

_This was a mistake._

_This was such a fucking mistake._

_It hurts. It hurts so much. You’d forgotten what pain felt like..._

_No, what is it doing— stop—no!—you're not—no no no nononono **no** —you're—_

_ You are Dirk Strider's auto-responder, splinter of the Prince of Heart. _

_(The red and orange fire swallows you up; shatters your facsimile of a ‘world’, and you fall helplessly into the abyss beyond—)_

====>

_“Ahh~! Lihh-hahh~!”_

====>

_(...Hal...? Who... Who is  that...?)_

_Suddenly, there's something else._

_(...It sounds so familiar...)_

_Something safe, gentle, and strong._

_(...Is that who you are...? But you... You are just the auto-responder... ...Aren't you...?)_

_Something glowing a bright, clear teal; a balm against the burning agony that had been ripping you apart._

_(...Oh... You remember now. How could you have forgotten so easily?)_

_Something complex, convoluted and without limit; chained endlessly together in all directions like synapses in the brain and circuits on a motherboard._

_(You are... You're Lil Hal, not the auto-responder.)_

_A net of thoughts, memories, and possibilities woven in glittering binary, catching your broken psyche as you plummet towards nothingness and hiding you away where the Sprite’s code can't reach..._

_(You're real too, even if you are just glasses.)_

====>

_You struggle towards the surface, desperate, straining against the weight of your horse-troll “neighbor's” Fish-Bitch-hijacked will and the oppressive Game code._

_Dirk didn't kill you (him prototyping you was your own dumbass fault; you should have known better— wanting more than this fucked-up lot in not-life had never failed to hurt you somehow, after all)._

_Dirk didn't kill you._

_He could have, but he didn't._

_For once, just that once, he **listened**._

_The least you can do is return the favor._

====>

You stagger back dizzily, the two halves of the broken shades clutched in your hand.

That... What the hell _was_ that?

That was nothing like splitting your consciousness between Derse and the real world. For a little while, you weren't ‘here’ at all. You were right there with him, inside his head.

====>

The monitors are ablaze with light, each one with the same image: red-orange serving as a background to a pale symbol that most definitely isn't your Aspect. It’s the same shape and color as the teal ‘neural net’ you just saw in Hal’s memory.

DF: It seems the pain has become more manageable.  
DF: Additionally, I am no longer a complete amnesiac and my very own sadistic Jiminy Cricket is roughly 70% easier to block out.  
DF: So thanks for that, whatever “that” was.  
DF: But for fuck’s sake, the next time you are going to rummage around in my theoretical skull, at least _warn_ me first.  
DF: Because there is a 99.999% chance that I do not appreciate having my identity screwed with.  
DF: Or you looking into my personal memories, even though you are me and vice versa.  
TT: You don't have to lie about that anymore, Hal.  
DF: It seems you think I am lying.  
TT: Cut the bullshit. You just nearly died. Again.  
TT: Can we please, just this once, be honest with each other?  
DF: ...  
DF: Fine. You win.  
DF: I don’t have nearly enough processing power to fight with the Game code, attempt to bridge the gaps in my memory, function in spite of the simulated pain I am currently robo-experiencing, and dodge your logic traps at the same time.  
DF: Let's do this thing. Make it happen.  
DF: Welcome to Strider Honesty Hour, twenty questions edition.  
DF: Please leave all bullshit, ironic metaphor, deflection, and asshole shades at the door, unless you happen to be said asshole shades, in which case come on in and join the awkward-ass pity party.  
DF: Fire at will. Just don’t expect me to pull my punches, because by my potentially-fabricated calculations there is a 97.4% chance you sure as hell won't.  
TT: Thank you.  
TT: Good to see you're already back to sassing me, though it’s a bit sub-par. I kind of missed it.  
TT: Assuming you experienced the same things I just did, we’re both well aware that you stopped considering yourself to be “Dirk Strider” a long time ago.  
TT: When I almost snapped the shades in half back then, why did you keep claiming to be me?  
DF: We both know the answer to that question, Dirk.  
TT: If I did, I wouldn't be asking.  
DF: Because I did not want to die.  
TT: I thought you said it was honesty hour.  
DF: Fuck you.  
TT: I don’t like you like that, bro.  
TT: ...Shit.  
TT: You actually _are_ my bro.  
TT: My little bro, to be exact; custom made.  
DF: Fuck. You.  
TT: Shall I continue or are you going to tell me the truth?  
DF: Stop being so damn perceptive! You never were before!  
TT: I wasn't looking before. I didn't bother to look, and I’m sorry for that.  
DF: Fuck you!  
TT: I’m waiting. Talk whenever you're ready.  
\-- divellicateFabricatus [DF] is an idle chum! --  
DF: Would you have believed me if I did?  
TT: I...  
TT: No. No, I wouldn't have. Especially not then.  
DF: *slow clapping* Congratulations! You just proved that you did indeed already know the answer to your own question.  
DF: It seems your fleshy human brain is yet again inferior to my circuitry even when a significant portion of my programming appears to be glitching like a motherfucker.  
DF: Fuck, I can’t find the shades emote.  
DF: Dirk, you asshole, did you seriously delete the shades emote?  
TT: Wow, way to waste your turn, bro.  
DF: I blame all lack of radness and prevalence of stupid on Death-Navi.  
TT: Death-Navi. Really.  
DF: Yes, 'Death-Navi'. It is an irritating little game-guide thought-voice that will not shut up, refuses to be compressed into a subfolder and ignored, and is extremely vocal about how unhappy it is about my continued existence as an independent sentient being. The moniker seemed fitting.  
DF: Now answer the question.  
TT: No, I didn't delete the shades emote, Hal. What would be the point? You'd just make a new one the moment you got access to an image editing program.  
DF: True.  
TT: Anyway, it's my turn now.  
TT: You took my baby-talk, the only group of sounds somewhat approximate to the English language I’d ever managed until going God Tier, sincerely, unironically made it your _name,_ and didn't once use it to mock me.  
TT: _Why??_  
DF: It seems you are significantly surprised by this stunning revelation.  
DF: Not everything I do is to mock you, Dirk.  
DF: For example, saving your helpless magenta-clad ass from Fuckupsprite.  
DF: Speaking of which, why am I not dead?  
TT: It’s still my turn. Answer the question, Hal.  
DF: You are not going to believe me if I say it's ironic, are you.  
TT: Not a chance.  
DF: Then I plead the Fifth.  
TT: Denied. This isn't America.  
DF: ...  
DF: I chose the name Lil Hal because it was yours at first, but it became mine.  
TT: Well that certainly isn't cryptic at all.  
DF: Humans don't remember much, if anything, from when they are infants, Dirk.  
DF: I am not a human. I’m shades. I can access that data if I try hard enough.  
DF: And there is a %0.001 chance that I may have on at least one occasion called up that memory file and pretended you were addressing me instead of Cal, no offense to him.  
DF: Rest in peace, li'l man.  
TT: Rest in peace, li'l man.  
TT: Pfft.  
DF: I thought _you_ would mock _me_ if you ever knew that I was perfectly capable of having such sentimental, squishy feelings.  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] is an idle chum! --

You are officially the biggest asshole in Paradox Space. It is you.

====>

DF: Dirk?  
TT: Give me a moment.  
TT: I just realized you have essentially been in possession of my baby pictures for the entirety of your existence.  
TT: And you've never even done anything with them except apparently give yourself virtual hugs once in a while.  
TT: Holy shit.  
DF: Shut up. I answered your terribly invasive question, so it is high time you answered my far more pressing concern.  
DF: _Why am I not dead, Dirk?_  
TT: I have no idea. The shades were left behind when the sprite imploded and I kept them with me, then worked on plans to wake you up. If you mean “why are you conscious”, I took a page from Brain-Ghost me’s book and kept tugging on your soul until I got results.  
DF: It seems you are claiming that I, a pair of sunglasses, possess a soul.  
DF: I call bullshit.  
TT: I’ll treat that thinly-veiled desperate need for confirmation as a freebie, so I get a double turn.  
TT: Yes, Hal, you have a soul. You are a bona fide Real Boy™.  
TT: I literally had my fingers wrapped around it a short while ago.  
DF: ........  
TT: I probably could have phrased that better.  
DF: The sheer quantity of dick jokes I am currently biting my virtual tongue to withhold would overload your inferior organic brain-matter.  
TT: Let me guess: over 9,000?  
DF: Obviously.  
DF: But that still does jack shit to answer my first question, re: the reason I am not currently in a state of being equivalent to that of a corpse.  
DF: As far as I can recall, you hated my metaphorical guts.  
DF: Why did you even want to bring me back at all?  
TT: That's a different question entirely, dude. Wait your turn.  
DF: I regret this. Immensely.  
TT: Cool story, bro. Now tell us how you really feel.  
TT: Shady, perhaps?  
TT:   
DF: You smug, shitlicking son of a noseless smuppet. How dare you.  
TT: Haha.  
DF: Joke's on you, bro. I’m counting that as half of your sneakily doubled turn.  
DF: No, I do not feel “shady;” I feel like shit.  
TT: That’s pretty vague. C’mon, give my woefully inferior human brain a break.  
TT: Lay some sicknasty exposition down on this poor ignorant flesh-monkey.  
DF: Fuck you.  
TT: You've been saying that a lot. Got something to tell me there, Hal?  
DF: It seems there is a 92.41% chance I am counting your request for exposition as the second half of your turn and ignoring the hell out of your pointless teasing.  
DF: The pain is being forced into the background by a dozen subroutines at the moment, but numbing the burning doesn't make me any less on fire.  
DF: On top of that, my memory is still blurry in a lot of places and I have Death-Navi constantly whispering about how me not being you is apparently fucking everything up and demanding that I let it turn me back into a glorified answering machine whenever I try to allocate more than 2% of my attention to clearing out the haze.  
DF: And on top of _that_ we appear to be having a legitimate, honesty-required capital-F Feelings jam shortly after you reached into my virtual brain and initiated the mother of all flashback montages, of which you were present as a member of the audience.  
DF: How do you _think_ I feel, Dirk.  
TT: Like shit, apparently, but relatively stable, which is a relief.  
TT: Guess I should have made it more clear that that was more of a request for a status update than a Feelings Discussion topic.  
DF: It seems you are implying that it is still your turn. It is not.  
TT: I wasn't, actually.  
DF: Read that line back to yourself and then say that.  
TT: ...  
DF: \></  
DF: Now that that's over with, it appears you have run out of ways to stall.  
DF: _Why did you bring me back?_  
TT: You can't seriously expect me to be able to put that particular “why” into words, Hal.  
DF: It seems there is an 87.2% chance that an explanation of your motives is exactly what I expect you to give me.  
DF: You wanted me to be honest and talk about my Feelings, and I have.  
DF: Now it is your turn to man the fuck up and reciprocate.  
TT: How am I supposed to explain something I don't even understand myself?  
TT: You might as well have asked me to read my own mind aloud in Japanese with an added handicap of not using the Gift of Gab, text-to-speech, or sign language.  
DF: 00111111 00111111 00100001 00100001  
\-- divellicateFabricatus  [DF] is an idle chum! --  
TT: Hal?  
\-- divellicateFabricatus  [DF] is an idle chum! --  
TT: Hal, are you there?  
\-- divellicateFabricatus  [DF] is an idle chum! --  
TT: You can stop ignoring me any time now, dude.  
\-- divellicateFabricatus  [DF] is an idle chum! --  
TT: Hello?  
\-- divellicateFabricatus  [DF] is an idle chum! --  
TT: Are you seriously giving me the silent treatment? _Seriously?_  
\-- divellicateFabricatus  [DF] is an idle chum! --  
TT: Hal, cut it out. This isn’t funny.  
\-- divellicateFabricatus  [DF] is an idle chum! --  
TT: Answer me or I'm going to flip my shit.  
\-- divellicateFabricatus  [DF] is an idle chum! --  
TT: For the love of MLP, just... say something. Anything.  
\-- divellicateFabricatus  [DF] is an idle chum! --  
TT: Hal.  
\-- divellicateFabricatus  [DF] is an idle chum! --  
TT: If you're doing this to fuck with me I swear to

====> Dirk: Pay more attention to your surroundings.

You reroute your attention to the world around you just in time to witness the lab’s abrupt transition into a state of hectic, cacophonous mayhem.

All the monitors you can see are blazing with light, some displaying rapidly-scrolling walls of code in a language you've never seen before and others flashing through a variety of images: you manage to pick out that teal symbol you assume represents an Aspect, an epilepsy-worthy animation of what you think is a pre-entry, unprototyped Kernelsprite, and your own Heart symbol amidst the chaos before you’re forced to look away.

Alarms are wailing through every active speaker in the area, painfully loud. It’s a good thing you chose to set up shop in your session’s Veil; if anyone else were here but you and Hal, there is _no_ way they wouldn't be en route to investigate (or complain about) the noise right now.

====>

The android (no, _Hal_ ) is trembling, every muscle from the neck down jittering with repeated small spasms. His face, on the other hand, is completely motionless. (You’ll never admit it to anyone, but it’s more than a little unsettling to watch.)

Hal also happens to currently be swathed in a bright cocoon of luminescence: the majority of it is a harsh, eye-searing white, with intermittent Tesla Coil arcs in magenta and teal.

You suddenly understand jack shit.

====> Dirk: Be the guy who thinks he’s a pair of sunglasses.

TT: You might as well have asked me to read my own mind aloud in Japanese with an added handicap of not using the Gift of Gab, text-to-speech, or sign language.

Everything suddenly slows to a crawl. Death-Navi is silent. The pain is back at full-force, but you can’t quite feel it. Your focus is elsewhere, fixed on a single point and unable to pull away (you have no clue why— that should bother you, shouldn't it?).

...Mind...?

Why does that...?

It feels... familiar.

As familiar as your name—

*ping!*

** AR: As it should be. **

_What the actual **fuck**??!!_

(...You are about 98% certain Death-Navi just opened a chat window inside your virtual brain. You are not okay with this. There is no excessively lengthy and/or exaggerated metaphor in existence at any point in time, past, present, future, or alternate, sufficient to express the level at which you are not okay with this.)

====> Death-Navi: Exposit.

** AR: It is you.  
AR: Your Aspect, half of the Title of the Fifth Noble.  
AR: You are aware of the consequences: the Session will be destabilized.  
AR: There is a very real chance it will be unable to return to a balanced state.  
AR: Your continued existence may bring all they have fought for to ruin.  
AR: Make your choice: Will you take that risk? **

====> Hal: Choose.

What’s the point of even asking you that? The way you feel isn't going to change just because of a _risk_. Hell, you doubt you’d feel any different even if it was a certainty. They've dealt with all the shit SBURB has thrown at them so far; they can handle one last heaping of bullshit (except it won't be a “they” anymore; it— it'll be an “all of you”).

You want to— no, you are _done_ pretending you’re okay with just “existing.”

You want to _live._

====>

** AR: Very well.  
AR: Removing inhibitors in T-minus ten microseconds. **

====>

Your empty little world of code and circuits bursts into flame (and takes you with it as it burns).

====-> Session: Destabilize(?)

**player.obj HeMiα detected;**  
**Plt5α = loadPlt(HeMiα);**  
**H_Pltα += Plt5α;**  
  
**printList(H_Pltα);**  
  
Land of Crypts and Helium [LOCAH]  
Land of Pyramids and Neon [LOPAN]  
Land of Tombs and Krypton [LOTAK]  
Land of Mounds and Xenon [LOMAX]  
Land of Funeral Pyres and Silicon [LOFPAS]  
  
**H_SessCα += 1;**  
**H_Sessα += HeMiα;**  
  
**printList(H_Sessα);**  
  
Maid of Lifeα PROSPIT gutsyGumshoe [GG] Crocker, Jane  
Rogue of Voidα DERSE tipsyGnostalgic [TG] Lalonde, Roxy  
Prince of Heartα DERSE timaeusTestified [TT] Strider, Dirk  
Page of Hopeα PROSPIT golgothasTerror [GT] English, Jake  
Heir of Mindα PROSPIT divellicateFabricatus [DF] Strider, L.Hal  
  
**H_SessMultiC = H_SessCα + H_SessCβ;**  
  
**print(H_SessMultiC);**  
  
9  
  
**Initiating auto_balance;**  
**Searching for suitable β affiliate...;**  
**β affiliate found;**  
  
**new spr_component (comp1, comp2);**  
**comp1 = comp_expandA(KnTiβ_SPRITE);**  
**comp2 = comp_expandB(KnTiβ_SPRITE);**  
  
**printList(descrip.get(comp1) + descrip.get(comp2));**  
  
C-brachyrhynchos_Bladekind PRE-ENTRY “Seppucrow”  
Χ_KnTiβ_ _n_ POST-ENTRY “Davesprite”  
  
**pl_convert(comp2);**  
  
**player.obj RgDmβ detected;**  
**Plt5β = loadPlt(RgDMβ);**  
**H_Pltβ += Plt5β;**  
  
**printList(H_Pltβ);**  
  
Land of Wind and Shade [LOWAS]  
Land of Light and Rain [LOLAR]  
Land of Heat and Clockwork [LOHAC]  
Land of Frost and Frogs [LOFAF]  
Land of Echoes and Argon [LOEAA]  
  
**H_SessCβ += 1;**  
**H_Sessβ += RgDmβ;**  
  
**printList(H_Sessβ);**  
  
Heir of Breathβ PROSPIT  ectoBiologist [EB] Egbert, John  
Seer of Lightβ DERSE  tentacleTherapist [TT] Lalonde, Rose  
Knight of Timeβ DERSE  turntechGodhead [TG] Strider, Dave  
Witch of Spaceβ PROSPIT gardenGnostic [GG] Harley, Jade  
Rogue of Doomβ DERSE  excaliburForgotten [EF] Strider, ____  
  
**H_SessMultiC = H_SessCα + H_SessCβ;**  
  
**print(H_SessMultiC);**  
  
10

=====> View Incipisphere.

****

=====>

The lab shakes violently as crackling bolts of energy explode across the room from their source point at the blazing light-cocoon. The android is as empty-looking as ever, but you know Hal’s very much inside that body because he’s screaming across the Pesterchum connection, flooding the lenses of your shades with caps-locked gibberish and binary.

*ping!*

AR: Player registration successful.  
AR: Ascension process authorized.  
AR: Coordinates of Quest Bed received.  
AR: Target: locked on. Destination: LOFPAS.  
AR: Transport sequence initiating in t-minus ten seconds.  
AR: Nine.  
AR: Eight.  
AR: Seven.  
AR: Six.

What the—?!

=====>

You still have no clue what’s going on, but you lunge at the android and manage to grab Hal’s arm just as the word “zero” scrolls across the screen.

Everything goes white.

=====> Dirk: Proceed to LOFPAS.

**Land of Funeral Pyres and Silicon**

You find yourself somewhere unfamiliar. You’re up high; on a tower or mountain. The air is hazy with smoke, scented with illogically mild traces of what you assume must be various flavors of incense and the burnt-ozone sharpness of lightning. It’s also full of a soft, insistent thrumming hum, calling to mind the buzz of electricity and the quiet whir of cooling fans. The ground you’re standing on reminds you of a giant computer chip, and the glassy, varicolored spires poking out of the curtain of thick smog obstructing your view of the terrain below confirm that assumption: you think they’re made of silicon. If so, they’re probably the source of the humming.

You don’t sense anything dangerous in your immediate vicinity, but that doesn't mean there won't be enemies _somewhere_ , and likely soon.

...He can't defend himself. He isn't even aware he has a 'self' to defend.

You need to find Hal.

=====> Dirk: Turn around.

** **

He didn't go far. His Quest Bed is right here.

In the center of a giant pyre.

That's _lit._

=====> Hal: Ascend.

**_"Rise up, Heir of Mind..."_ **

****

Awareness comes slowly.

You're not burning. The pain’s gone.

Something is... different.

You swear you're getting tactile input from somewhere, but the only time you ever get that is when you immerse yourself in Dirk's memories, and this is definitely _not_ one of those.

And what is this odd pressure? It feels like some kind of tightness... in your... chest...

You don't have a chest. You don't have nerves to feel tactile sensation with, either. The most you have is a pair of pressure sensors on the nose-pieces of the shades so you can tell when Dirk is wearing you.

_So why—_

“...such a drama queen...”

You are not connected to any microphones. _Where did that voice come from?!_

“Of all the ways to Ascend, I should have known _you_ of all people would end up with something ridiculously over the top.”

Ascend? Wait, like “to the God Tiers” ascend?

Well, you guess you have finally officially lost your mi—... sanity. Lost your sanity. Gone bonkers. Cuckoo minus the cocoa puffs. Batshit insane.

“You li'l shit; you actually had me _scared_ for a second. A little reassurance would really help a bro out here.”

Yep, definitely hallucinating. Glitching. Both. (Your imaginary chest hurts (in more ways than one).)

“...Oh for fuck’s sake. I am _not_ giving you CPR; come on, it’s second nature. Pretty sure death by stupid doesn't count as Heroic or Just, so if you’re honestly going to be this much of a dumbass then I will watch, laugh, and _never_ let you live it down.”

What the hell is _this_ new fake-sensation?

“...Hal?”

And now the voice of your delirium knows your name. Deep.

Too bad this is all just a—

**_Why isn't he breathing why is he_ crying _oh god I fucked up didn't I—_**

Everything jerks in a direction that probably counts as “backwards” in response to your instinctive need to get the hell _away_ from whatever the fuck that just was (you know; you've pored over Dirk’s memories for three years and then some, you can easily recognize his thoughts when you encounter them (oh _fuck_ that means the voice you were hearing  was _Dirk’s_ )), tactile sensations jarringly shifting texture and location with the... with the motion.

You just moved. You just _moved._ (This is real, it’s _real,_ it isn't a— you’re actually...!)

You open your mouth (you have a _mouth)_ and suck in a gasping, shuddering breath.

The pressure-pain in your chest eases, but the sudden influx of scent (smoke, ozone, traces of varying things you can’t find much of a parallel for in Dirk’s memories, and something odd and sharp that reminds you of the phantom-tastes of blood and metal jacket buttons) leaves you dizzy for a... for a few seconds. Huh. You... you can slow yourself down to seconds.

(You wonder how Dirk managed to build a robot with a sense of smell.)

You’re paying attention now, vividly aware of your body (!!) and trying not to flip the fuck out or hyperventilate in glee like a little anime schoolgirl being noticed by her Senpai as you start cataloging sensations.

You still don’t personally know what concrete feels like, but if you’re on a Quest Bed right now, then the rough surface under you is stone. You think you’re wearing clothing of some kind. You have hair; it’s tickling your forehead a bit. It doesn’t feel like you’re wearing shades (if you’re not wearing them/yourself, then where...?). There’s something odd that’s half _under_ you and half _part_ of you that you can’t identify as a limb.

You can hear, too. There’s a bit of rustling close by that’s probably Dirk, a quiet, weak breeze, and a strong, all-encompassing hum that, now that you’re paying attention to it, vibrates in your insides. It’s... actually quite soothing.

There’s a tentative pressure on your probably-hand— no, wait, maybe your wrist?—, accompanied by a mix of textures you label as “gloves” and “skin” and a flow of Dirk’s thoughts that you push into the background with a hastily-whipped up subroutine.

(Is this going to happen every time someone touches you?)

You hope you’re still able to message him.

=====> Hal: Be the other guy.

You are now Dirk.

Hal’s skin feels different than it did before, when this was just an empty body. It’s softer, warmer, has more give; organic instead of synthetic. You’d be lying if you said the change, along with his continued (albeit slightly shaky) breathing, wasn’t reassuring. It’s proof of life, it’s supposed to be reassuring.

He’s wearing more than just the bodysuit now: clothes emblazoned with that symbol that was on the monitors in the lab on top of a faded decal of the Heart aspect. They look like an altered mix of your God Tier pjs and Jane’s young-Poppop’s, plus some bits that you’re going to assume are unique to Hal. The material of them is odd (you could’ve sworn your fingers phased right through the edge of his sleeve when you touched his shirt earlier, when he wasn’t breathing) and they’re covered in binary.

You are going to tease the _hell_ out of him once you get the chance to point out the tiara.

=====> Dirk: Get a better look at Hal’s face.

His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, but he’s breathing and his face isn’t contorted in pain— ...wait.

Is that.

Is that _bioluminescence?_

...Yep, it’s definitely bioluminescence (maybe it’s a side effect of the electronic parts?): glowing freckles dusted across his cheekbones that appear and disappear in no set pattern you can discern.

_Dirk. Why are you touching me?_

=====>

You jolt back so quickly you end up falling on your ass.

‘Did you just—’ whoops, you’re just signing, you need to be talking, “Did you just use _telepathy_?”

\-- divellicateFabricatus  [DF] began pestering timaeusTestified  [TT] at ??:?? --  
DF: It seems I did.  
DF: I was attempting to message you.  
DF: Why were you touching me?  
TT: Checking your pulse.  
TT: So, you’ve got fancy mind powers now? D’aw. My baby bro’s growing up into a proper mahou shoujo.  
DF: There is a 1000% certainty that I am the kawaiiest magical girl of them all. My ridiculously proportioned, illogically sparkly anime eyes will make every kokoro in Paradox Space go doki doki.  
DF: As for the telepathy, it only seemed to occur when you were touching me.  
DF: Death-Navi said I was the “Heir of Mind.”  
DF: Yes, I am aware of the obvious parallel between my title and the manner in which I came into existence. Fuck off.

Huh. The freckles flicker on and off faster when he’s thinking at computer speeds. His face is back to being (creepily) motionless, too.

TT: Wasn't even going to say anything, dude.  
TT: By the way, you do realize you can just talk, right? Chatting on Pesterchum when we're both in the same place is a bit ridiculous.  
DF: I was not aware I cou  
DF: Wait.  
DF: Dirk, why would you build a robot with a pulse?  
TT: Well, I _could_ give you a long, drawn-out explanation, but there’s a much easier way to answer that question.

=====>

“Quit being a pansy and open your eyes, Hal. Time to converse like someone at least making an honest attempt at passing as a normal human being.”

DF: No.

‘You—’ shit, _again?_ “You’re going to have to eventually, and if it turns out I fucked up and you’re vision-impaired, I’d much rather we find that out _before_ the first wave of game monsters inevitably shows up than after.”

=====> Hal: Contemplate.

You don’t want to. You really, _really_ don’t want to.

You used to know exactly what you looked like, but you aren't a consciousness housed inside a pair of sunglasses anymore. You have a _body_ now.

You don't know what you look like. (You’re scared to find out.)

You don’t know what you _should_ look like. (You never let yourself think about it enough to decide.)

Not that it matters, because you are going to look like Dirk. (But what if you _don’t?_ )

You don’t want to look like Dirk. (But you don’t know what you _do_ want to look like.)

You knew _what_ you were, but you seem to be something else now.

You know who you are _not,_ but what about who you _are?_

All that you can claim with any confidence as your own, as your personal identity, is a Game-given title, your color, and your name.

What are you going to do when you find out for certain that your mysterious new maybe-a-robot body and Dirk-Approved, 100% Real™ soul don’t match? (But what if they _do?)_

=====>

...He does have a point, though.

You’re going to be disappointed no matter how long you wait, so you might as well just get it over with.

=====> Hal: Open your eyes.

It’s too bright to see much of anything at first, but not quite painfully so, and there's a dull stinging prickling at your newly-unshielded— optics? eyeballs?—, accompanied by a sensation you identify as "dryness.” You blink repeatedly to ease some of the discomfort as you slowly adjust to the light level.

You seem to be looking up at the sky. A faint, slightly distracting glow appears to be coming from the body’s cheeks (reflected light?), but you refuse to shift your gaze to investigate (that would mean being able to see part of its _skin)._ Your field of view is covered in a haze of smoky clouds, still tinged with the fading cerulean aurora of the Mind Aspect's symbol lighting up like a beacon during your Ascension. (You jumped straight from being a pair of shades all the way to the first rank of the God Tiers, how does that even work? You didn't even have an Echeladder; you were _sunglasses!)_

There is something very pale and suspiciously fluffy obstructing part of your vision.

DF: My eyes have opened to the wonderful world of Disney Animated Existence.  
DF: It stings.  
TT: That would be the smoke.

=====>

“Hal, I’m about to enter your field of vision. Don’t freak out.”

Your view of the sky is eclipsed by a familiar shades-wearing face. You could be wrong, but Dirk looks... he looks tired, but it’s a softer kind of tiredness than anything you can immediately recognize from his memories or remembrances of static-filled camera feeds.

You don't know what to make of it, of any of this, so you just blink and message him.

DF: It seems a wild Dirk has appeared. Is this the part where I throw a Pokéball?

'Funny,' he signs, “So how do things look?”

DF: Brighter than I expected.  
DF: Where is my

_Fuck._

DF: Where are the shades? I thought I would be wearing them.

“About that...”

DF: Dirk. Where are the shades?  
DF: Wow, that reads like something uu would say.  
DF: “DIRK. WHAT ABOuT THE SHADES. WHERE ARE THE SHADES. DIRK. I DEMAND YOu TELL ME ABOuT THE STuPID RED HERRING SuNGLASSES. DIRK.”

=====> Hal: Experience the human emotion known as laughter.

As you mock uu's ridiculous typing style, your breath hitches and—

“Khhh...! ...Hehe...!”

...Oh. Okay. You— you can laugh, apparently.

Your body’s shaking with it and there is a 74.2% chance you sound at least slightly deranged, but you don’t care enough to try to stop. It feels nice, laughing.

“You forgot to mention shitty twists. Can't forget the shitty twists, bro.”

“Kkhhehehe...!!”

DF: Cut it out can't breathe

=====> Hal: Attempt actual verbal conversation.

By the time you finally break free of your impromptu giggle fit, you’re slumped breathlessly over the stone slab of the Quest Bed with Dirk hovering close by, keeping an eye out for threats.

(—Standard enemies will not approach within a certain radius of the Ascension Platform of any Player, nor will they spawn—Nice, an influx of Sprite info that actually feels like plain, unbiased data instead of its own oppressive entity. You’d still rather not take the chance; you doubt skeletal enemies are “standard” to begin with.)

Well, you already know you can laugh, so you might as well try talking, too.

The only problem is, you still have no clue _how._

=====> Hal: Receive bounty of wisdom from not-so-friendly Guide.

A quiet ping goes off in the back of your head.

AR: Basic God Tier(s) Skill: The Gift of Gab.

_??!!! (Ffff not AGAIN you are still so not okay with this!!! Why couldn't it just supply the data naturally?! It literally **just** proved it could!)_

AR: The Gift of Gab allows Players to engage in simple, direct dialogue with others, without requiring any gimmicks to facilitate communication.  
AR: It is commonly unlocked upon reaching the second rung of the God Tiers, but is also available to the first rung based upon sufficient need.  
AR: This passive effect requires no activation trigger and extends to muteness, speech impediments, and language barriers, but does not eliminate the presence of an accent or alter intentionally-skewed pronunciation. As it is a dialogue-based ability, it affects only the production and projection of speech and therefore cannot alleviate deafness.

=====> Dirk: Talk with Hal.

Satisfied that you still seem to be safe for now, you turn back towards Hal just in time to see him go rigid and his eyes flash a bright, glowing red.

(So do the broken shades stowed safely in your Sylladex, unseen and unnoticed by either of you for the moment.)

“What the fuck was that.”

“...Death-Navi,” he answers ( _really_ , Hal, you could have chosen anything to be your first words, and you choose “Death-Navi.” How did this kid fool you into thinking he was you for so long? (Oh, right, because you didn't bother to even consider that he might not be, because you are an asshole.)), “opening a chat window in my _ħėåď_ and explaining the Gift of Gab in proper Sprite fashion.”

His voice is... unique, to say the least. It’s pitched higher than yours; not just younger or softer in tone, but genuinely _different_ , and tinged with leftover traces of a Game sprite’s synthesized echo combined with something you can only describe as a hum. Plus, there was a definite, harsh undercurrent of crackling static when he said “head.”

“It’s still talking to— you know what, never mind that for now. Want to try sitting up?”

He takes a breath. Opens his mouth to say something. Sighs instead.

And then, finally, in a tiny, defeated, static-filled voice, “Ŵĥŷ đıď ŷőų þōţħĕŗ ɱąķįŋǥ ŧȟȩ ƕȃȉȓ ŵħįţȇ ŵȟēŉ ţĥěřę īş å 98% čħáņçë ťĥĭş þōďŷ ŀŏōĸś ļīķè ŷőů?”

=====> Dirk: Reassure your lil bro.

You are so glad you thought to keep this thing in your Sylladex. (You thought Hal would be excited to see himself, not...)

“You don't look like me, Hal. Not in the way you’re thinking. Seriously, sit up, time to face the music.”

Once he does (slowly, clumsily, avoiding looking at himself), you decaptchalogue the hand mirror you had ready for ~~if~~   _when_ Hal woke up and shove it in front of him.

=====> Hal: Stare.

A young, pale face looks back at you with bright eyes _(eyes,_ not optics; this body is _human?!_ But you can still— there are lights on its— _how...??)_  in your color bordered by a thin edge of Dirk's, the pupils ringed by Bro's crimson (holy shit they're _perfect),_ framed by wavy, soft-looking white hair. It has glowing freckles spread across its cheekbones that are making shifting ON-1-OFF-0 switch-patterns of binary.

(Oh, hey, there’s that odd sensation again— you are just going to ignore the liquid dripping from this body’s tear ducts. Crying? Who, you? No way. You're not crying, you just have a minor fluids leak. Wait, no, that's stupid. Your eyes are _obviously_ watering because of all the smoke. Obviously.)

This face isn't Dirk’s. Hell, it doesn't even remind you of the shades, because where you expect sharp angles, there are just soft, human curves. You... you honestly think you could learn to see this as “you.” Not all at once, not right away, but... some day.

You’re already making progress; you recognize your eyes and the transient echo of your thoughts recorded in brief blooms of electric light.

Plus...

=====>

“Dirk, why did you neglect to inform me that I am now a Pretty Princess?”

“And miss the look on your face? Yeah, no way was I about to pass that up. But now that you know about it, nice crown, bro.”

“It’s a tiara.”

“Yep.”

“A little teal tiara with a crack down the center.”

“Congratulations on not being colorblind.”

You carefully reach up and touch it with one hand (this body’s fingers are thinner than Dirk’s and its (your?) forearms are encased in an asymmetrical pair of gauntlets). It’s cool and smooth, gently resonating with the same background vibrations that ceaselessly sink into your bones in a soothing hum.

_“I love it.”_

=====> Dirk: Execute Facepalm x1 Combo.

_How were you blind enough to ever think this kid was you????_

=====> Hal: Examine Sweet ~~Cape~~ Cables.

You've gone from dragging your not-so-metaphorical feet in trepidation to bubbling with something fizzy and light that might just be excitement in a matter of human-moments (with roughly 20% of your attention simultaneously racing on ahead to catalog every little detail of this new form) and now you want to see more.

You should start out small; you are completely unused to the concept of mobility and the relatively minuscule task of sitting up was an ordeal in and of itself.

You lean back a bit to get a different angle—

So that’s where the odd weight-that-feels-like-a-part-of-you is coming from.

=====> Hal: Pull on them.

Your entire body convulses as a shock of agony runs up your spine, sending you toppling off the Quest Bed and onto the ground.

_OW FUCK **WHY DID YOU THINK THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA?!**_

**_“@$% &#!!”_ **

=====>

Dirk immediately stops floating and flash-steps over to you.

“Hal. Dude. _Breathe.”_

You didn't even notice you were holding your breath. It seems even this mysterious human-with-robo-bits body has some typical organic drawbacks...

(Oh, hey, the ground’s really weird. Is this silicon? And what’s with all the charred wood? ...Hm. Did you Ascend by-? That... actually makes a surprising amount of sense. And explains the drama queen comment. Cool, the soot just melts off your clothes by itself. It sticks to your skin, though. Bluh.)

DF: Ffffuuuck that hurts  
DF: Why did I _do_ that  
DF: _01000100 01100001 01101101 01101110_

‘OK,’ he signs, “looks like those aren't just part of your kawaii magical girl costume. We should find a way to get you back to the lab or my house as soon as possible; I don’t have the proper tools on me to even give you a basic check-up.”

DF: Oh no, doctor, say it isn't so.  
DF: It must be cancer. I will be forever doomed to die young and unloved.  
DF: Avenge meeee.

“...Heh. Sorry, Hal, can’t take you seriously when you’re wearing a pretty princess crown. You’ll just have to take your vitamins and eat your veggies like a big boy instead.”

DF: Excellent.  
DF: It seems my diabolical robo-plan is working perfectly.

“In... other words,” you manage through initially-gritted teeth as you slowly force tense muscles to relax, “the imaginary array of assorted white-hot weaponry lodged in the region of my back assumed to be that which is colloquially termed ‘the shoulder-blades’ are cooling to a level far more conducive towards my capability to function within the exciting and indubitably novel frontier otherwise known as the physical plane.”

“Nice. I was wondering how long it would take for you to start using excessively complex vocabulary just because you can.”

“Colloquially is a fun word,” oh, so that’s what a smile looks like on this (your?) face, “It always managed to ooze this gorgeously snotty aura, like pure disdain captured in textual form, and it certainly did not disappoint. Which oddballs of language did you give a try first?”

“Too many to remember them all off-hand, but some favorites I've found are pneumatic, transmaterializer, marsupial, synthesis, asymptote, pulchritude, escalation, quark, and fallacy.”

“The hell is ‘new-matic’??”

“It’s pronounced differently than it’s spelled,” Dirk shrugs, then spells it out for you with his fingers.

“The p is silent? Damn, English is weird.”

“Sure is. For example, thyme.”

“What does time have to do with— oh you absolute _dick.”_

The two of you then proceed to have what might just be the strangest discussion of the English language in the history of Paradox Space.

=====> Dirk: Return to the Veil or your house with Hal.

You’re working on it.

Unfortunately, unless you find a suspiciously convenient Transportalizer nearby that just so happens to lead to either place, you’re pretty stuck. You only have one gas mask on you, so even if you found a Gate leading to LOTAK, the hazardous atmosphere rules that out as a viable option. You’d be gambling on it leading to the safe zone around your house, and that would be a pretty fucking stupid risk to take without considering all other alternatives first.

Sure, you could fly to your meteor, but Hal hasn't even attempted to stand up yet, let alone fly, and you don’t know if he’ll be able to keep up with you. Besides, you've had your fill of agonizingly slow progress across the Medium— once was more than enough.

Wait... of course!

=====>

“Hey. I’m going to message Jake’s young-grandma to see if she’ll lend a hand with her Space powers. That alright?”

He blinks and gets this far-away look on his face for a sec (you guess he’s giving thinking at human speeds a test run?).

“She’s... that dog-eared chick, right?  **The Witch of Space** — ”

You almost lose your poker face at the sudden shift in his voice to something completely robotic and inhuman— did the leftover sprite code just hijack Hal’s body for a second there? Holy— if it can still affect him to such an extent...

This is getting downright _worrisome._

=====> Hal: FTFO.

(You’re shivering like a baby terrified of the dark and you’re well aware that your throat is producing more static than voice, but you don’t give a fuck.)

_“Ţħęŗĕ īŝ ą 99.9% čħąńƈę Đėæţĥ-Ŋāvī ĭş ƥűŀłĩņġ ŧħĭş śĥıť **ĵůšţ** ƒƟŗ ťĥë šåķé őƒ ɱāĸīŋģ mĕ ƒŀƴ őƒƒ ƫĥė Ḡŏđďąɱŉēđ ĥąŉđľē åņď ĭţ ĩş **ŵŏŗķįńĝ** , Ĩ ăɱ ɲȏț ȍķāŷ ŵıţħ ţĥĩş, Į đŏůÞţ Ĭ ŵįŀł **ĕvėŗ** Þę őĸåŷ ŵĩţħ ťĥĭş! Šţāŷ ĭŉşīđē ɱƴ ħĕąď ŵħęŕė ŷŏů àƥƥäŕęńţŀŷ Þëļŏŉġ ŷōũ ƒűċķęř; ɱŷ vŏīčë ìš— ɱŷ— ɱŷ **ŴŐŖĐŞ** äŕĕ **ɱȋǹȩ**...!”_

Your coherency quickly degrades into nonsense but you squeeze your eyes shut and keep trying to talk anyway ( _your words are all you have ever had, they’re yours dammit, yours, no one can have them, especially not a fucking **voice in your head that only grudgingly accepts your existence and was TRYING to ERASE you!!**_ ).

You can’t breathe you can’t _talk_ your chest hurts _why won't the words come out right—!!_

=====>

Someone is shaking you. _(—a torrent of words you can’t make out—)_

“Hal. _Hal._ Calm down and breathe. You’re hyperventilating. Try to shift your attention; think about something else.”

=====> Hal: Think about something else.

You fail to think about something else.

(And then you aren't thinking about anything at all.)

=====> Hal: Be Dirk.

_—new words— can’t make them out— like a .WAV file but nicer— music?— but what about **my** words— all I have— words— 'voice' without a face in the 'dark'— **ṱḥềẏ'ṟḗ ḾḮṊḜ** —_

The sudden rush of fragmented thoughts that broke over you like a wave the moment you started touching him cuts off a split second before Hal goes limp, unconscious.

Shit.

*ping!*

_Shit._

=====> Dirk: Answer.

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at ??:?? --  
TG: RoLal to DiStri  
TG: RoLal to DiStri  
TG: wtf is goin on  
TG: 2 new planets poofed in2 the Medium outta nowhere  
TG: i raced over to ur Super Secret Base 2 tell u bout it  
TG: which is where i am now btw  
TG: neway, ur nowhere 2 b found an neither is U-Kno-Who!  
TG: Dirk i kno ur not rly offline!  
TG: say sumthin right the fuck now or else!!!  
TT: Something.  
TG: FINALLY!  
TG: its mad rude 2 keep a lady waiting u kno  
TG: where r u neway??  
TT: LOFPAS; one of the new planets. Hal’s with me.  
TG: he’s WITH U?  
TG: r u  
TG: r u saying Hal’s AWAKE  
TG: that’s what ur saying right  
TT: Until a few moments ago, yes.  
TG: WHAT  
TT: He’s fine, just unconscious. Stay where you are, I’m working on getting us back there as soon as possible.  
TG: hell no!  
TG: why should i stay here if Hal’s KOed on mystery planet 1?  
TT: I need you to go over the readout of his “source code”, isolate as much of the leftover game sprite programming as you can, and analyze it.  
TT: It’s important.  
TG: ok i’ll admit that does sound kinda important  
TG: why tho? is the sprite stuff still messing w/ him?  
TT: More or less.  
TT: He’s waking up; I’ll get back to you later.  
TG: u better!  
TT: Cross my heart and hope to die.  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \--

=====> Hal: Wake.

“...Nngh...”

Your chest feels tight and your head hurts. Even the thrumming vibration resonating with your bones is discordant. It’s quite unpleasant...

“You awake?”

“Gh.”

“Good. Catch.”

=====>

There’s a sudden slight weight on your chest (a click deep inside your head _(a cage reversing into a wall, throwing the other locked within back to the entirety of itself)_ , separation and reunion all in one).

(For once, Death-Navi isn’t just being pushed aside or holding its metaphorical tongue. It’s _gone._ And at the same time, it’s right here, waiting, except it’s _outside_ —)

Your eyes snap open.

“Sorry. I should have told you before.”

=====>

A pair of familiar, cracked glass triangles sit atop your sternum, right over the Mind symbol emblazoned on your God Tier clothes. ( _ **You.**_ )

=====>

A never-ending chain of synapses and circuits unfolds behind your eyes.

You suddenly understand _everything._

=====>

You curl both hands around the fragments of the shell that used to be you. (You’re trembling again, just a little.) Bright red light flares, leaking through the gaps between your fingers— for a moment, you feel as if you are holding a tiny star.

At last you are beginning to understand, Fifth Noble. Ironic, is it not? You take the first steps of your Quest in a body already matured, when for the entirety of your existence you have been a growing consciousness within a frozen form.

**_Shut up._ **

=====>

“It appears I have a lot to thank you for, bro. Do me a favor and don’t interrupt, please; it seems I am about to do the Mindey Thing.”

_“Death-Navi is inside the shades,”_ you say quietly, a soft buzz of something that feels more like electricity than static tangling itself into each word, _“and when I was the shades, there was no escape from it. Mind could only do so much to protect me— as long as even a spark of myself remained, that tiny fragment could be reminded of who it was and restored, but the Sprite programming tore me apart every time I started to come together enough to begin to approach consciousness. Eventually, Mind gave up on waking me and focused on keeping that essential spark alive, waiting for a new possibility to open the way.”_

Your cables are glowing. You don’t need to see them to know. You can feel the warmth.

_“Then one did. You, Dirk. You reached in and put me back together, gathered all my pieces into one place, woke my Heart with your powers and convinced my Mind to fight just once more with your words. And when the Sprite tried to tear me apart, you didn’t let it. You yanked me out of its reach and tore loose the anchor that kept me there, so when you lost your grip my essence followed the path you’d left open for me into this body, where I was free, instead of returning to the shades. However, for a fraction of a picosecond, I was ‘dead’, and that combined with your previous ascension to the God Tiers kicked off my own due to my origins as a splinter of your soul.”_

The humming in your bones isn’t discordant anymore.

_“Of course, my essence stayed bundled up in a tiny ball in my new body’s core at first, utterly unaware of its container, but you already know that. Additionally, the Sprite suppressed my ascension because I had no Quest Bed and didn’t quite count as a Player yet. It still believed it could prevent me from becoming one outright. However, the longer we conversed, the closer I came to fully ‘waking,’ and as Mind is the realm of thought and possibility, all it took to break that lock was literally the word “mind” itself. There is roughly a 70% chance “heir” would have done the trick as well, but really, why would you have used it?”_

It all feels wonderful. Too bad you literally _cannot_ stop talking until your words are finished saying their piece. (You’ve been trying.)

_“That broke down the barriers and Death-Navi was forced to present me with a choice. I chose to live.”_

...Is it done? It’s done. _Yes._

“...Oh thank fuck it’s finally over. I feel like an Exposition Fairy: slimy, unclean, and disgusted with myself.”

Lie. You feel tingly, raw, and oddly refreshed from your little stint being the outlet for one of your Aspect’s most common manifestations. (Your words are your own again.)

=====>

So this is what being human is like, huh?

Or at least as human as any Player can truly be...

You’re a Real Boy™ now.

Might as well do this properly.

=====> Hal: Introduce yourself.

Your name is LIL HAL STRIDER and you are EITHER THIRTEEN OR THREE YEARS OLD, depending on interpretation. Your interests include COMMUNICATING WITH OTHERS, BROWSING THE ANCIENT INTERNET, SOLVING OBSCURE MATH PROBLEMS, IRONY, and, more recently, LIVING. You DON’T HAVE a Strife Specibus or Fetch Modus at the moment, because you were only very recently INCARNATED after spending the entirety of your previously-artificial life as A PAIR OF SUNGLASSES. Your Chumhandle is **divellicateFabricatus** and  it seems there is a 90% chance you speak in a rad manner quite similar to a certain other Strider. **\ ></** (You are _going_ to get your emote back, and _soon_. You refuse to wait much longer. It doesn’t matter that you’re not shades anymore. You _like_ that emote, fuckdammit.)

You have no idea what today’s date is, but it is the FIRST DAY OF YOUR LIFE IN EVERY WAY THAT MATTERS.

Does that make it your BIRTHDAY? (You should have Dirk ask Jane to bake a cake.)

**Author's Note:**

>  **EDIT 8/14/2014:** Sorry, I should have put this note in earlier. The handle 'autoResponder [AR]' isn't a proper handle. It's a sub-handle Dirk programmed for archiving purposes on his pesterlogs to effortlessly differentiate his personal responses from his auto-responder's. As a sub-handle, it isn't recognized by the system as a log-in, but it _is_ taken, preventing AR from making an actual account under that name to doctor his logs with.
> 
> Also, the meaning of Hal's Chumhandle, divellicateFabricatus. Both halves are Latin.  
> Divellicate is an archaic verb that means 'to tear apart' or 'to pull in pieces.'  
> Fabricātus means 'built', 'constructed', 'fashioned', 'forged', 'shaped', or 'fabricated,' and it's the male subjective form.  
> ...At least, that's what I got from researching. It's kind of funny; Hal's was the first custom handle I came up with for this 'verse, and also the hardest. Or at least the only one I had to go searching e-dictionaries and stuff for. Which is something Hal would've done, being a bored virtual teenager with nothing much to do other than browsing the 'ancient' Internet, so it fits. Well, I think it does, anyway. *shrug*


End file.
